The Good Life (26 page)

 

In the car, Ann began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Could you believe that dessert scene? As if any of them were actually thinking about
not
having dessert.”

Jesse smiled. “Dessert isn’t evil, Ann.”

“Not when you have sorbet,” said Ann. “You made the only sensible choice at the table.”

“I must admit, I was thinking about having the cobbler.”

“Oh, you were not,” said Ann, allowing the car to roll through a stop sign. “That cobbler must have six hundred fifty calories, without the whipped cream.”

“Are you okay to drive?”

“Of course I am,” said Ann. “What kind of question is that?”

“You hit the wine pretty hard at lunch.”

“Oh my God,” said Ann. “Am I driving with my friend or my mother?”

“Your friend,” said Jesse. “A concerned friend.”

“Don’t start, Reverend. I’m not in the mood.”

Jesse stared out the windshield, thankful the center was only a few blocks away. After they arrived, Ann parked the car and they hurried inside. They walked, as instructed, directly backstage. Lit up like a car dealership with Frank Sinatra crooning from the sound system, the cavernous dressing room area looked like a movie set. A half dozen harried-looking women scurried about with clipboards in one hand and cardboard cups of coffee in the other, emitting signals of controlled panic. Marge Simon, the fashion show organizer, approached Ann with a worried look on her face. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, dismissing one of her assistants. “Everyone’s running late.”

“What can we do to help?” asked Jesse.

“Go talk to Pam. She’ll tell you what you’re going to wear and when you’re on,” said Marge. “She’s in the middle of reworking the schedule, but she should have a good idea by now.”

Pam Rogers, a take-charge type who had been Marge’s Girl Friday for years, was on the other side of the room encircled by four women talking at once. “Ladies,” she finally said, holding up her free hand. “Let’s all calm down.”

“How can we calm down?” asked Penny Martin. “The show starts in thirty minutes and you have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Actually I do know what I’m doing,” said Pam, consulting her clipboard. “You are all matched up by size. Penny, you’re a size ten, which puts you in the sable and sheared beaver.”

“Wonderful,” said Penny, hugging herself.

“Where’s Ann Barons?” asked Pam.

“Right here,” said Ann, stepping forward.

“You’re in white fox all day long,” said Pam.

“They’re all size two?” asked Ann over the buzz of conversation.

“Yes,” said Pam. “We ordered them in especially for you.”

“Excellent,” said Ann, grinning. “When can I try one on?”

“Talk to Jennifer,” said Pam, pointing to the other side of the room. “She’s our release captain. And I’ve left further instructions in your room.”

Ann winked at Jesse and strutted over to Jennifer, a slim, perpetually tanned, bleached blonde who dressed in Lily. She smiled falsely when she saw Ann, then kissed the air beside her left cheek. “Where have you been hiding?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you in a dog’s life.”

“At home,” said Ann. “My parents are visiting.”

“Yuck!” said Jennifer. “I break into hives whenever my parents stay longer than dinner.”

Ann laughed. “My mother actually
makes
dinner.”

“Worse!” howled Jennifer. “Don’t tell me—it’s Casserole City! Either that, or meat loaf smothered with creamed mushrooms, baked potatoes with butter and gobs of sour cream, and green beans with slivered almonds. God, my mother can’t serve a bowl of beans without those slivered almonds. You need a wheelbarrow to leave the table.” Ann laughed again; someone finally understood her situation. She should have known Jennifer would come to her defense. After all, she was the only other size two in town. Ann had always admired her thinness, even though it was maintained by cigarettes instead of exercise. At least Jennifer understood the importance of appearance. Ann made a mental note to ask her to do something other than lunch or the gym. Maybe they could go shopping in the city, just the two of them. “However, I must admit, you look marvelous,” said Jennifer, putting her hand on Ann’s arm. “Have you been sneaking the meat loaf to the dog?”

“I just leave it on my plate,” said Ann. “I’m hoping my mother will catch on that her dinners should be sent back to the nineteen-fifties.”

“Any luck?” asked Jennifer, feigning interest.

“Not yet,” said Ann. “I think we’re having breaded pork chops tonight.”

Jennifer rolled her eyes. “Well, you continue to fight the fight,” she said, turning to face the rack of furs. “In the meantime, let’s get you suited up.”

 

In a tiny side dressing room, Ann put down the note from Pam requesting she wear the clothing provided and sniffed the armpits of the black suede pantsuit Pam wrote was new. Ann had not wanted to change her clothes, but Pam’s note indicated that the show’s theme extended beyond the furs. Ann ran her hands along the material, which felt expensive, then shed her clothing. The suit fit like it was tailor-made for her, feeling like bathwater against her chilled skin. She slid her feet back into her calfskin heels and strode out of the room, looking for Jesse and an assistant who could find her a low-fat latte. As she rounded the corner, the heel of her left shoe caught the edge of an area rug, and she went down, landing on her bottom and then back and head, biting her tongue. “Shit!” she said.

“Oh my God, are you all right?” asked a woman who had opened the curtain to her dressing room when she heard the thud. She knelt down and then gently lifted Ann’s head and back so that Ann was sitting. “Stay right here. Breathe,” she said, still on her knees next to Ann. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” said Ann, whose head felt like it was full of sand.

“Let me get you some water.”

“And some coffee,” said Ann. “Would you please get me some coffee?”

“Don’t get up,” said the woman. “I’ll be right back.” She returned in five minutes, with a glass of ice water in one hand and a cardboard cup in the other. “Let’s get you into my dressing room. There’s a folding chair in there, if you feel ready to move.”

“Yes,” said Ann. “I’m okay.”

The woman set the water and coffee down on the floor, took off Ann’s heels, and then helped Ann to her feet. She led her into the dressing room and onto the chair. She then grabbed the water and coffee from the floor and handed the water to Ann. “Take a sip,” she said. “Nice and easy.” Ann took a small sip and then another. Her head was beginning to clear. “You stay here, don’t move,” said the woman. “I’m going to find Pam so she can change the schedule.”

Ann held up her hand. “I’m okay. You don’t need to do that.”

“It’s an easy switch,” said the woman. “You’re near the beginning of the show, and I’m near the end.” And before Ann could further protest, she disappeared behind the curtain. When she was gone, Ann set the water glass down and reached for the coffee. She took two long pulls from the tepid latte and then two deep breaths. Why in the world would someone put a rug in a dressing room area on a stage?

“Done,” said the woman, reentering their tiny space. “This will give you another thirty minutes or so to recuperate. How are you feeling?”

“Good,” said Ann, even though the sand in her head had been replaced by intense heat. “If you could just point me back to my dressing room, I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll walk you back,” she said, helping Ann to her feet. They walked over the offending rug and around the corner to the back row of rooms. Ann could again hear the busyness of women around her: talking as they wrestled their clothes off and on in shared dressing rooms, laughing, shouting, squealing, and scurrying around her in the narrow hallway.

“This is it,” she said, pointing to a room with its red curtain pulled across. The woman held the drapery in the air so Ann could pass through. Inside, Ann sat on her own folding chair and looked at her watch. “Would you get me some Advil? It’s in my purse.” The woman spun around, grabbed Ann’s bag from the floor, and handed it to her.

“I’m going to head back to my room to get ready,” said the woman. Ann noticed then that she was still in her changing robe. “Can I find someone to be with you?”

“I’m okay, really,” said Ann. “Once these Advil kick in, I’ll be good to go.”

“All right, then,” said the woman. “I’m off. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” said Ann. “And thank you.” As soon as she was gone, Ann closed her eyes and focused on her throbbing head. It was like a hangover, she told herself. She knew how to function with a hangover.

 

Five minutes before her turn, Ann slipped the white fox car coat over her shoulders. On Marge’s cue, she walked out from behind the cityscape set design and onto the carpeted runway that took her to the center of the stage. The audience
oohed
its approval. “You all know our lovely Ann Barons,” said Susan Barry, chair of the Ladies Charitable Society and the event’s announcer. “She’s dressed in casual, but elegant evening wear from Fashion Sense.” At this, Ann parted her coat to reveal her outfit. As instructed, she spun slowly, then removed the coat and slung it over her right arm. “This outfit, ladies, will take you anywhere,” oozed Susan. “Dinner with your husband at a cozy restaurant in town. Or get those diamonds out of the safe for a dazzling look, appropriate for a night in the city.” Some of the ladies in the audience nodded at one another knowingly. Ann slid the coat back on, hugging it closed, which sent ripples of laughter through the auditorium. “Oh yes,” said Susan, smiling broadly. “You’ll absolutely love yourself in this white fox car coat. Of course, it’s perfect for a night out, but it’s also a great coat to grab and wear over jeans. Dress it up or dress it down. It’s incredibly versatile.”

Eileen, who was sitting between Sally and Paula, made a face. She hated fur coats on anyone except Eskimos and Arctic explorers. And the very notion of wearing such a thing on errands was nothing short of grotesque. She leaned over and whispered in Paula’s ear, “Would you really wear that to the grocery store?”

“Oh, lots of women here do,” whispered Paula back. “I think it’s kind of a status thing. It seems as though anyone can wear a fur to dinner or to church, but if you wear one to the grocery store that means you definitely have more than one in your closet. Doesn’t Ann look fabulous?”

Eileen returned her attention to the stage, where her daughter was prancing like a circus horse down the runway away from the audience. “She certainly thinks she does,” she said, more to herself than to Paula. It was one big farce was what it was, the fashion show. It was housed in the halls of charity, but it was really a chance for the town’s finest to show themselves off and it sickened Eileen. Then again, thought Eileen putting her hands to her stomach, it could be the cherry pie. She had eaten the whole thing, in spite of its enormity. Quick calculation told her she had consumed one-sixth of the pie, when, at home, she normally ate no more than a tenth, or at the very most, an eighth. What in the world made her do it? Maybe, she thought shamefully, she’d just wanted to show Ann’s friends that she could.

Sally offered to drive Eileen home after the show, but Eileen declined. Even though she was tired and anxious to see Sam, she decided the right thing to do was to wait for her daughter in the lobby. She sat in an industrial-looking chair with a thin red padded seat and watched the women clear out of the arts center. Most of them chatted happily as they moved from the auditorium to the glass doors that led to the parking lot. Snippets of conversation filled Eileen’s ears.

“. . . the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I’m going to put
that
on my Christmas list!”

“. . . marvelous charity.”

“Did you see the . . . ?”

“. . . always does such a nice job.”

Eileen shut her eyes and the voices became discordantly musical, a symphony of words. Her stomachache was beginning to ease.

“. . . the original bitch.”

“Who does she think she is? Strutting around the stage like a peacock.”

Eileen opened her eyes and saw two women standing several feet away from her. Others were still milling about, digging car keys and cell phones out of purses, saying their good-byes, but most of the women were already on their way home. These two lingered, appearing to prefer the warmth of the carpeted, red brick lobby to the ice-covered parking lot. They talked freely, seemingly unaware of Eileen’s presence. “I used to think she was pretty, but I think she’s gone overboard,” said the redhead in black pants and an emerald green top.

“Completely overboard,” said the other, a blonde in a royal blue outfit. “She really
does
look like the scarecrow everyone calls her.” They laughed. “Maybe she’ll keep dieting until she just disappears altogether!”

“No one would miss her. How refreshing this town would be without the presence of the Baronses.” Tempted to approach the women, to scold them for their unkindness, Eileen instead held her ground and her tongue. But she could not stop herself from listening.

“Except for Mike. God, he’s gorgeous.”

“How does she hold on to that handsome husband of hers?”

“How do you think?”

“Sex, sex, and more sex?”

“Exactly. That’s all any man really wants.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I’d be happy to take him on.”

“He’d be grateful for something to hold on to!” They laughed again.

Just then, Ann appeared in the lobby. Eileen waved and Ann approached her, walking past the two gossipers, who were now chatting about March break vacation plans. “Have you been waiting long?” she asked.

“Not really,” said Eileen, standing and making eye contact with her daughter before briefly shifting her gaze to the two women. One of them looked back at her. Eileen gave her daughter a quick hug.